The Killer Inside Her

Don't let the innocent look fool you. Shalane Flanagan is an assassin in compression socks with an Olympic Marathon in her sights.

[Editor's Note: Since this story appeared in April 2011, Flanagan earned a spot on the U.S. Olympic Marathon team by winning the marathon trials in January. She is expected to run the 10,000 meters at the track trials in Eugene.]

This past November, a 29-year-old American named Shalane Flanagan found herself leading the ING New York City Marathon with three miles to go. At 110th Street, where Fifth Avenue kisses the corner of Central Park, she ran elbow-to-elbow with Edna Kiplagat and Mary Keitany, two of the best distance athletes in the world. Kiplagat had won the Los Angeles Marathon earlier in the year; Keitany was the reigning half-marathon world champion. Flanagan was no slouch, either: A 10,000-meter specialist, she already had an Olympic bronze medal in her pocket. It was the first NYC Marathon for all three athletes, and the first marathon of any kind for Keitany and Flanagan. Debut stages don't get any bigger.

Spectators shouted her name. "Go Shalane!" They wondered if they were witnessing history. No American woman had broken the tape in New York since Miki Gorman in 1977. With blonde hair and a face like Ireland itself, wearing knee-high compression socks and a red racing tank under a white-and-blue bib, Flanagan ran like a character cooked up in a comic book: Runner Woman. Cowbells clanged. Police sirens whoop-whooped. But inside Shalane Flanagan's head, all was calm.

Don't show your cards yet, she thought. Stay close. She matched Kiplagat and Keitany stride for stride. The advice of her coach, Jerry Schumacher, floated through her mind: Keep your cool. If you can keep your shit together, you have an opportunity here.

Years earlier her father, a former top marathoner himself, had spoken of the competition she might face one day. "You know where the best runners in the world are?" he said after she won a high-school race in her hometown of Marblehead, Massachusetts. "East Africa. When you can run against those women, then you've arrived."

And here she was, battling East Africa's best for the laurel crown.

The course doglegged into Central Park just before mile 24, where a series of rises add a little pepper to the race. Patience, Flanagan thought. That was the game plan she and Schumacher had agreed on. Conserve energy. The early miles were so slow that she and New Zealand runner Kim Smith shared a laugh over the 6:30 pace. Flanagan had to tamp down the urge to take off, unleash the beast, and demolish the field. Since high school, the fierce competitor within her struggled with her tactical brain. Kamikaze racing, she called it. No patience. Foolish. Years ago it had ended in yard sales. She'd collapsed within sight of the finish, again and again. Patience now.

The game plan worked. She'd gained confidence with every mile and now, in Central Park, she felt strong even on the uphills.

Then, surprise. Just past mile 25, Kiplagat broke away on a downhill. Keitany followed, but Flanagan's quads were shot. She pushed, but her body responded only with pain. I'm in third, Flanagan thought. Keep it close. Don't give up. Things can happen.

Things happened. Kiplagat kept pushing. Keitany faded. Flanagan, grinding on the uphills, reeled her in at Columbus Circle and reclaimed second. When Flanagan turned off Central Park South for the last stretch, Kiplagat was 20 seconds ahead. Flanagan was still hurting. If Kiplagat collapsed, Flanagan would have a shot. If not, she thought, that's okay. This is what I have today.